


Faithless

by Sophia_Bee



Series: Game of Thrones [5]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 05:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18584467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: Jaime and Brienne survive the battle of Winterfell.





	Faithless

**Author's Note:**

> Working out my anxiety about the next episode. One shot. Thanks to my dearest bestie/beta, in that order, Leafeylocket.

She sees his pain some days; the stiffness in his hips, the way he winces as he moves a rock from the field behind their cottage, the slow and careful way he swings out of their shared bed, testing out every muscle before he stands. She mostly sees it in his eyes when he grows uncharacteristically quiet and knows he is no longer sitting at their table with a thick slice of brown bread and a mug of ale, but is back there, seeing only the fire, hearing only the screams. 

There had been no declaration of love; no moment for people to write songs about; no confession of feelings. They had not been bound together, said the words, pledged to each other in front of the Seven and the world. He had made her a knight, looking into her eyes as if there was no one else in the world. That was the moment. Their moment. She hadn’t left his side since then. 

Not during the battle. Not during the flames. Not after. Not ever. 

They had fucked the night after the battle so narrowly won; the one that left more dead than could be counted; the one she would see forever in her dreams. Clumsy fingers stiff from the cold worked the buckles of each other’s armor with undisguised urgency. They both knew where this was going and how it would end. There were no words, both robbed of speech by what they had witnessed. 

Brienne had been half out of her mind with lust, lost somewhere between the familiar intoxication of battle and that moment afterward when sanity returned. She pushed back the nagging questions she knew she could not avoid for long: why had she survived, why had others died. Instead she kissed Jaime hard, ruthlessly, never wanting to stop. 

He had smelled of blood, death, armor. His body was bruised and bloodied, broken in more ways than one, and all she wanted was him inside her before she could feel the burden that came with survival. She did not mind the pain of the gash on her arm where his large hand gripped her, the ache from the wound on her thigh as she ground against him, the broken ribs that sent sharp pains with every moan. 

They did not talk afterwards. Brienne rolled onto her side, her body shaking with orgasm, or the aftermath of battle. She could not tell which. Maybe both. Jaime wrapped his arms around her from the back, cradling her head with his stump, his breath heavy in the back of her neck. Brienne had blinked back tears that she could barely understand. Before death had come to Winterfell she had always imagined this moment would be filled with soft words, gentle touches, platitudes of love, declarations of devotion. Instead it was filled with the heaviness of sleep mixed with the weariness that comes after a battle. Maybe later she would remember and smile a little at her naivety, wonder what she’d expected. Not that night. She had nothing left, only hollowness, loss and Jaime remained. Always Jaime. She felt his arm around her waist grow heavy and his breathing begin to slow. Brienne closed her eyes and slept. 

Neither of them slept apart after that night. 

***

They left Winterfell. What was left of it. It lay in a smoking ruin, a sad tribute to a hard fought victory. Not the day after the battle or even the next. There was healing to be done. But _their_ battle was over. The one the Kingslayer and Brienne the Beauty fought side by side. Others would fight the remaining war. 

One day, a fortnight later, maybe more, when he had gained back his humor and she her endless disapproval; when they had both found a way to at least smile at each other again; when the cold of the north felt utterly unbearable; he told her it was time. She did not ask time for what. She knew. 

They left the north, side by side, horses walking slowly, almost meandering. Both wore the rough spun traveling clothes of the north, nothing to tell the world who they were except Jaime’s golden hand. He was attached to it, he told her with a smile that looked almost like the old Jaime Lannister. It still did not reach his eyes. She did not argue. 

They rode away, across snowy mountain passes and tumultuous rivers. They rode as far as they could go. Brienne would ask where they are going. To the edge of the world and back, Jaime would joke over their campfire, a rabbit roasting on a quickly assembled spit, darkness encroaching on the small circle of light. Still, they never escaped. At night they went back to Winterfell, one, the other, or both, thrashing about their shared bedroll, dreams filled with fire. Brienne would wake with the names of the dead on her lips. She would wake with his good hand smoothing her brow, his voice whispering in her ear. She was safe. They were both safe. She would always believe the lie. 

Those dreams are less now. No less strong, no less terrifying. Less often. 

He is old. A graying cripple, Jaime sometimes says with a small, sardonic smile. No worse than a has-been Knight, Brienne often answers, without a smile. She says the words knowing she will receive a glare. Shut your mouth, Ser Brienne. She gives him a rare smile and remembers that night. The night they thought they would die. She remembers Jaime, beautiful, entitled, bold, thinking he could make her a knight. Then he did. 

She is not a has-been. 

He is not a cripple. 

They are a pair. A scarred, hurt, sorrowful, haunted pair. 

***

Some days they almost forget. They spar in the meadow down the hill, near the stream, and everything that came before this moment is somewhere in the distance, where it can be only seen if she looks carefully. The wildflowers are in bloom, filling the air with their scent. 

Good for fish, Jaime had told her when they first found the spot. And irrigation. 

She had frowned at him all those years ago. He shrugged and told her he hadn’t entirely ignored the education his father had tried to give him. Teased her that she thought all he could be was a knight. She had always known he was so much more. 

The sun is warm on her face. Oath Keeper glints and she grips the sword with expert skill, waiting for him to swing. Her shoulders bunch and flex. Sweat pours down Brienne’s face. Jaime smiles at her. Their eyes lock, green meeting blue, filled with warmth and for a rare moment, nothing else. 

“Do your best, Ser Brienne of Tarth.” 

He lunges forward. She answers him. 

She always does her best. She always will. 

***

They sleep, holding each other tightly, trying to keep the dreams at bay. 

Jaime sometimes whispers in her ear in the middle of the night, when the moon is high and the sky is clear and full of stars. Brienne always squeezes her eyes shut at his familiar but always unexpected words, tries not to think about what he asks or what it means. It is a request from a different time; a request borne of their nightmares. 

_When I die, will you burn me?_

His hand is under her tunic, resting on her bare breast. She pushes back against him, feeling his body along her back, wanting to be closer to him. She does not answer, swears no oaths. But she will do as he asks. She squeezes her eyes shut, chokes back a sob. 

_When you die, I will follow. Who will burn me?_

***

 _What if it had been different?_

He’s asked this a million times. 

This time it’s asked over apples they picked from a wild apple tree Brienne had found the first year in the cottages. The tree had grown warped and gnarled over the years but the fruit had only grown sweeter. Apples meant fall, another year, another winter to survive. Brienne loved apples. 

She never knows how to answer this question. There are too many different ways their lives might have gone but they didn’t. They are like a great river with endless branches heading in different directions, yet always moving forward. She cannot answer because she does not want to think what might have happened if they had made one different decision. She does not want to think about anything but being here. With him. Jaime. She does not answer and instead she does what she always does when he looks at her with that occasional pensive, odd look and asks her to question the past. She leans forward and captures his mouth with hers. 

He tastes sweet. 

***

 _It’s just us._

Another whisper. A kiss on her cheek. Her eyes fill with tears at his words. Another long silence from Brienne. She knows what he means. It’s just them. Here. Now. But more than that. She whispers back, her voice barely audible, cracking from emotion. 

_It always has been. From the moment I met you._

It always has been. Even when she could not imagine someone like him might want her to be a knight; to be his lover; to share his life. 

It always has been. Even when he could only imagine another; when all he wanted was to escape her and return to those arm. 

They have been intertwined from the moment they met. 

If Brienne had not had her belief stripped away by the ice and fire of a battle against death, she might even say they were destined, but to believe in destiny is to have belief in something. She has no belief left. 

Only him.

~fin~


End file.
